


Loyalty Lies

by ifonlynotnever



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Baseball, Humor, Kappa, Light-Hearted, M/M, New York Mets, New York Yankees, Trash-Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:53:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonlynotnever/pseuds/ifonlynotnever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Stiles is kind of a hardcore Mets fan, Derek maybe lied a little, and there is a kappa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyalty Lies

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this came from. It's silly, and it's sort of set after S2? I guess? Probably?
> 
> OH ALSO WARNING: There is kappa puke. Yyyyep.

It's the bottom of the ninth, they're down six-five with two outs and one man on second base, but David Wright is up with a full count, and Stiles is literally biting his nails in anticipation of the next pitch. Which has to be a homer, please, please, please let it be a homer, they've gotta win this one, they've—

The phone rings.

Of course the phone rings, and of course it's Derek's ringtone, and of course the instant Stiles tears his eyes away from the television screen, Boone Logan lets loose the single most perfect change-up in the history of _ever_ , and strikes David Wright out.

Stiles can't even let out a scream of anguish, because he's already got the phone to his ear, and Derek's already barking out instructions to _get your ass here now, Stiles_.

Life _sucks_.

—

Stiles fumes every single second of the drive over to the Hale house. His Mets just lost the third game of a Subway Series, something's probably going to kill him tonight, and he rushed out of the house before he could change out of his authentic Wright jersey, which means that whatever is going to kill him tonight will also ruin his favorite shirt.

And okay, so it's probably ridiculous to blame Derek, especially since there's no way he could've possibly made the Yankees win, but Stiles _blames Derek_.

Because all bad things that happen in Stiles's life are Derek Hale's fault.

Except for when they're Peter Hale's.

Or Gerard Argent's.

But aside from that! Yeah, it's totally Derek.

And Stiles is so going to tell him that when he gets to the house.

Definitely.

—

He doesn't tell Derek when he gets to the house.

He would've, he so would've, he's actually gearing up to say it to _the Alpha's face_ because screw self-preservation, okay, screw it, and Stiles actually slams the door of his Jeep (gently!) and stomps up to where Derek is looming impatiently on the ruined porch, right in front of the incongruously cheerful yellow smiley face spraypainted over the Alpha Pack symbol on the door (totally not Stiles's doing, though he admires Erica's metaphorical balls), and Stiles's mouth opens to say the words _I hate you so much and everything is your fault, you keep jinxing everything_ , but all that comes out, after a moment of stunned gaping, is,

"Oh my freaking _god_ , you _liar_!"

Derek's broody, impatient scowl quickly morphs into a broody, confused scowl. He shakes it away a moment later, advancing on Stiles intently.

"Stiles, what the hell took you—"

"No!" Stiles shouts. "No, shut up, you're a lying liar who lies and I'm going home, okay, and I'm never coming bac—Ow, ow, ow!"

Derek twists the ear between his fingers and tugs the teenager towards the house.

"I don't know what the hell your problem is tonight," the werewolf says conversationally, almost _pleasantly_ , only it's the kind of pleasant that means the teeth and claws are, like, thirty seconds from coming out, "but you're going to get over it and come help."

"You don't—My problem is that you're a liar!" protests Stiles, trying unsuccessfully to escape Derek's grip.

He falls flat on his ass when Derek lets him go about a second later.

"What are you even _talking_ about," Derek demands, jaw twitching and eyes flashing. Not flashing any particular color, thankfully, just... flashing. Ominously.

But whatever, Stiles's come this far without a survival instinct, he'll just forge on.

"I am talking," says Stiles, trying his hardest to sound dignified and mostly failing, "about _that_."

And he points at Derek's chest. Specifically, at the navy t-shirt he's wearing. Even more specifically, at the entwined _N_ and _Y_ , stark white against the blue, peeking out from under the lapel of Derek's stupid leather jacket.

"You're a _Yankee_ fan," Stiles hisses, just in case any further clarification is needed.

Which, given the smirk slowly creeping across Derek's lips and the way his eyes are now glued to Stiles's royal blue jersey, it isn't.

—

While Stiles would really love to say that he leaves immediately after that, the truth of the matter is, Derek called him for a reason. The reason being Scott. And Isaac, this time, which is unusual because Isaac's been good about staying out of trouble lately. Then again, maybe it was only a matter of time.

Anyway, they're in trouble. With kappas.

"Kappa," Peter corrects snidely from across the room. "In Japanese, the plural is kappa. Like deer and deer."

Stiles ignores him. "Dude, are we sure these are _kappas_? 'Cause it could be the kelpies. They did say they'd be back for revenge and all."

"It's not the kelpies," says Derek grimly. "They don't eat horse."

"Hor—Oh my god. I don't even want to know." Stiles shudders, trying to wipe the image from his brain. "Okay, so, kappa. Uhh, says you can kill them by—"

"Making them spill the water in the bowl they carry on their heads, which causes paralysis, then beheading them," Peter says. "We know."

Stiles grits his teeth. "If you know, then why am I here?"

Derek shifts uncomfortably; Peter smiles.

It's not a nice smile.

—

As it turns out, kappa also like to eat human children.

And apparently, they're not too picky about what qualifies as a child or a teenager.

—

"Fuck _everything_ ," Stiles says later, his Wright jersey covered in kappa vomit. He'd actually prefer blood over this, because, oh god, he's probably drenched in partially-digested horse intestines. It smells oddly like cucumbers, though, which is another thing Stiles may never eat again.

"Wait, wait," Lydia says, standing as far away from Stiles, Scott, and Isaac as possible while still in the same room. "So your plan actually hinged on making that thing throw up?"

"Had to get it to spill the water on its head _somehow_ ," says Isaac, like it was his idea.

(It wasn't. It was Derek's. Of course it was Derek's. All the shitty plans are Derek's, but it's not like Stiles or Peter had a better one, so.)

"It was _gross_ ," adds Scott, nodding. He looks like he thinks it was awesome.

(It kind of was. Or it would've been, if it hadn't been all over Stiles.)

Lydia's face twists. "Boys are disgusting," she mutters, and walks away, presumably to coo over Jackson and the slowly-healing bite in his arm.

—

So yeah, it's pretty much the worst night ever, and it's only compounded upon when it turns out Peter's waiting for them on the porch of the Hale house with a hose in hand, because apparently he could smell them coming for about a mile.

So Stiles is dripping wet, he's cold, he's still somehow covered in mud and kappa puke, Lydia is fawning over Jackson, his favorite shirt is ruined, the Mets lost, and _Derek is a freaking Yankee fan_.

"Dude, what's that got to do with anything?" Scott asks, because of course Stiles has said that last part out loud.

"It's got everything to do with anything!" he exclaims. He's not making sense, but whatever, it's been a shitty night, _he's allowed._

"Are you seriously still on this," Derek says flatly, lifting an unimpressed eyebrow. "Seriously, Stiles?"

"Seriously! Dude, you _lied_!" Stiles isn't sure the Alpha is getting the magnitude of all of this. "You said you were a Dodgers fan! You have a hat! I've seen it!"

"I _am_ a Dodgers fan."

"No, you're a _Yankee_ fan! You're a Bronx Bomber! You're a member of the Evil Empire, man, you're practically Darth Vader!"

(And fine, Stiles knows he's probably overreacting, but again: kappa puke. He's allowed.)

"Is this because the Mets lost tonight?" Scott asks.

"No! Okay, yes—wait, you were kidnapped by a kappa all night, how do you know—?"

Scott shrugs. "It had the radio on."

"Ugh. Whatever, okay. My point is that the Yankees suck, and their fans suck, and—"

"Sorry, what was that?" Derek asks. "I couldn't hear you over the sound of a Yankee sweep."

 _"We still have a chance!"_ Stiles snaps, before the words register in his head and he gapes. "Wait. Oh my god, are you seriously—You're joking. That was a joke."

"Not as big a joke as the Mets bullpen."

Stiles flails. "I cannot believe you would say that shit about our bullpen when yours is mostly on the DL."

Derek snorts. It should not be that attractive. "We don't actually need most of our pitchers to beat some Queens losers."

"Say that to my face tomorrow, after these Queens kings kick your sorry Bronx Zoo asses," he retorts. He's smiling, actually smiling. There's drying kappa vomit on his Wright jersey, his shoes are squishy and gross, and he's smiling at Derek freaking Hale, who may or may not be losing his grip on his frown.

"Both of your teams suck," Jackson pipes up. "The BoSox—"

"Shut up, Jackson," they snap in unison.

"Of course he's a Sox fan," mutters Stiles.

"Figures."

"I know, right?" Stiles shakes his head. "You're still gonna lose tomorrow."

"Scott, have your mother check Stiles for a concussion when you get back. He obviously hit his head somewhere."

—

And okay, maybe— _maybe_ —the Mets do get swept the next night, but Stiles doesn't feel the loss quite as badly as he expects.

It probably helps that he makes out with Derek for the last two innings.

**Author's Note:**

> Derek's usually portrayed as a Dodgers fan, but c'mon. Dude. He's basically the epitome of a Yankee fan, don't deny. ~~/bias~~
> 
> Also, disclaimer, Queens girl here! Nothing against the Mets, I just like the Yankees better. \o/


End file.
